The day they returned from Mr. Goodchild's burial, something strange happened.
As was custom, the children scattered into the compound, their laughter and footsteps stirring some life into the silence. One by one, Mr. Abdul's grandchildren ran to him, embracing him around the waist, clinging to his knees, calling him "Baba" with smiles and innocence.
But then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Where is Nalal?"
That question, simple as it was, drew stillness in the air. Eyes darted around in disbelief. Since the day Nalal was born, Mr. Abdul had never carried her, never kissed her cheek, never even looked her way with anything other than dismissive silence.That child had learned to avoid his gaze, and yet today, he asked for her. I wasn't shocked. Not at all. I knew that man's heart better than anyone. I was seated with Nalal in the dining room when he strolled in with a false smile.
People gasped quietly, stealing glances. Some murmured. But me? I wasn't shocked.
I was in the dining room with Nalal, watching her trace circles on the table with her tiny finger. Mr. Abdul entered, his footsteps heavy with the weight of age and authority. His eyes settled on the child beside me.
"Nalal," he said, his voice softer than usual, "won't you come greet Papa?"
The girl flinched. She looked at me, unsure. She was afraid—how could she not be? But she stood slowly and went to him. With hesitance in her eyes and trembling hands, she bowed her head respectfully.
To our utter astonishment, he reached out and pulled her onto his lap.
That was outrageous.
I felt my breath seize, my chest tighten. Something in me cracked. It wasn't affection he offered; it was calculation. I knew this man too well. He didn't see Nalal as a granddaughter. He saw her as a bank.
A piggy bank.
And I wasn't about to let that happen.
That night, I called Sibrin. "Put restrictions on Nalal's wealth," I told him. "No one should be able to touch a coin without her guardian's consent."
Have no doubt. Mr. Abdul had already started calling Nalal into his office regularly. "Sign here, sweetheart," he would say. The child, too young to understand, obeyed.
It was always the same—once their stomachs were full and their plates clean, they returned to their old ways. Arrogance. Disrespect. Entitlement.
I was in my room when it happened. Nalal had gone outside to play, as any child should. She ran to join the other children—Hassan's brood, loud and untamed. I believe she approached them with the gentlest of intentions, maybe just looking for someone to play catch with or share a story.
But instead of welcome, she was met with cruelty.
"You're dirty!" one child shouted.
"Go and bathe!"
"Look at her skin, so black. You need to get clean."
Nalal froze. Her small face twisted with confusion, shame, and disbelief.
"But—Granny bathed me this morning," she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "I'm not dirty."
I heard the commotion from inside and stormed out, only to find my precious girl standing alone, trying to defend herself. Her innocence clashed with their ignorance, and the adults—yes, the adults—just sat there, watching.
That was it.
My blood boiled.
I stepped forward. "What do you think you're doing?!" I roared. "Nalal is your sister! You will apologise!"
The children shrank back—but not before their mothers—my sons' wives—stood to shield them. One spoke with prideful venom, "Our children won't apologise."
That was the moment I crossed my own line.
I had no choice but to strike where it would hurt.
"Respect her!" I shouted. "She feeds you! While you sit and let your children rot in rudeness, this little girl is the one you all depend on."
Their silence spoke louder than any excuse they might have had. I pointed a trembling finger. "May God forgive me, but you have failed. The Abduls have fallen—and only God knows into which pit."
Then, I gathered Nalal in my arms.
She didn't need to hear their insults anymore.